Not So Long Ago
by oucellogal
Summary: Elisa's thoughts on the scene on the porch steps in 1.22, "The Plan."


**Not So Long Ago**

**Summary: **Elisa's thoughts on that scene from "The Plan."

**Spoilers: **As long as you know what happens in "The Plan," you're good.

**Rating: **K+; nothing objectionable.

**A/N: **A little drabble that came to me last night while I was supposed to be working on something else.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters.

* * *

I don' t know how long I've been sitting on these porch steps. Too long. But not long enough. I sit here, hoping to feel normal again. This is the only place I feel normal, and it usually helps, but today even that's not working.

The giants came back.

On some level I always knew they would, and I think Scotty did, too. But he promised me I'd never have to go back to the hospital, not after what happened the last time I was there. I don't really remember much, but Scotty was very angry, and so he promised me.

He's been taking care of me as best he can, but it's hard since we don't live together anymore. We called off the wedding three years ago, so I don't think it would be right. He tried to get me to move in with him, but I refused. He needs his space. He needs some time away from me. He claims he's fine, he assures me he can handle it…but I know him. I see the weariness in his eyes. Poor Scotty, he just looks so tired all the time.

I remember the first time I saw him. I was sitting on this very porch step, and he'd just scored a triple play in stickball. I didn't know him, so I asked my sister who he was, and she told me. We didn't talk that night, mostly because I was too shy and ran home before he could say anything. But we met later…and the rest was history.

Here he comes now. I can feel him coming before I see him. He's angry with me, I can tell. Worried sick about me, too. I don't like to worry him. It's something I think I do too much lately.

"I've been lookin' for you all day," he says, and he's angry, yes…but I can see past it. Mostly he's just scared. His voice breaks a little. "Everywhere I'm lookin' for you. God, Elisa!" he exclaims.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. It's the only thing I can think of to say.

His anger disappears then, and he looks into my eyes, just as I look into his. It's chilly out, but still, he's sweating, and his eyes have a panic I've never seen in them before. He looks like he's aged ten years just today. _Madre de Dios, _when did he get so old? We were kids, not so long ago.

"Y'okay?" he asks, and I avoid his eyes. I don't want to break his heart.

"Hey," he demands, a little more sharply than he intended. "Talk to me."

I can't lie to him. "They came back, Scotty. The giants."

He starts to get annoyed with me again, I can see it in those bottomless eyes of his. He thinks I didn't take my meds. It's fair. Sometimes I do forget, but today…today I remembered.

"I know what you're thinkin', I know you think that I didn't take my meds, but I did," I insist. "They still came back."

Exhausted as he is, I see the warrior rising up in him again. He still wants to fight. Even now. Even after all this. He can't see defeat even when it's staring him in the face.

Sure enough, he's defiant. "Well, we'll get stronger meds," he says. "We'll talk to the doctor, see what he has to say---"

"That's what we did last time," I interrupt, now as frustrated as he is. "That's what we do all the time, but it doesn't get better, y'know, baby, it just _doesn't_."

That gets through to him, and I hate that it does. Oh, it needs to. He needs to hear it. But it hurts me so much to watch.

He looks away for a second, and I can see the fight bleeding out of him as quickly as it came. He sighs, then sits down next to me on the steps and sighs again, like he's a hundred years old. He is too young to be that old. Too young to be tied down, hoping for something he'll never have…dreaming dreams that can't come true.

"I'm gonna go stay at my sister's for a while," I say. He knows what that means, and I know it hurts him. What I'm saying is that I'm letting him off the hook. Him taking care of me isn't working. I'm not getting any better, and I won't, no matter who takes care of me, so there's no point in him killing himself trying. I know he says he loves it, I know he wants to save me, to fix me, but he can't, and I think continuing to try will destroy him. And I can't let that happen.

"If that's what you wanna do, do it," he says glumly.

"I don't know what else to do," I snap back. "Do you?"

He doesn't answer.

And all of a sudden…all of a sudden, it feels like goodbye. The end. There's no happily ever after, not for us. I don't know whether Scotty knows it yet, but I do, and my heart is breaking.

I don't want to remember us like this. I don't want him to remember me like this. I want us to be young and carefree again, like those boys playing stickball.

All of a sudden, I'm back there, on that hot August night when I first saw him.

"Shirts two, skins zero," I say wistfully, and in my mind's eye, I can see him. Tall, skinny, messy hair…a little uncoordinated, but he always managed to come through when it counted.

"There ain't no skins," Scotty informs me, gesturing toward the boys. He's right. There aren't. It's too cold for that tonight. "I mean, don't you see that? I mean, just---just _look!" _he bursts out. He thinks I'm seeing things again.

I am…more clearly than I have in years.

"I meant before," I say, as angrily as I can, which, after today, isn't half my normal wrath, but it gets the point across. "When we were kids."

Angrily, he wipes the sweat from his upper lip and starts to get up. "Let's go, Elisa," he says brusquely. I know him. He doesn't want to go back there. He doesn't want to remember. It's too painful. But, baby, you have to remember. You _have _to. For us. It can't end like this.

"Skins make a comeback in the last inning," I say urgently. "Do you remember?"

"No," he says softly, shaking his head. Oh, baby. You always were a terrible liar.

"Triple play…scored by Scotty Valens," I remind him.

He's silent for a moment, and I watch as his heart breaks. He remembers. I know he does. I can see it in his eyes, those eyes I have loved for as long as I can remember, those eyes that are now filling with tears as his face begins to crumple and he struggles not to cry.

"I don't remember," he says, around a lump in his throat.

"But I do," I retort softly. Even if he doesn't remember, can't remember, _won't _remember…I will. I'll remember for the both of us, and I'll keep reminding him until he remembers, too.

He turns and looks at me then, just a trace of that grin on his face, that cocky little grin that first caught my eyes, and for a second, just a second…he looks fourteen again.

He remembers. _Gracias a Dios._

"That was a long time ago," he says.

"Not so long ago, Scotty," I remind him, and his face crumples again. This time, he can't fight it, and, with a small whimper, he lays his head down in my lap.

"Not so long ago," I repeat as he starts to sob.

He cries for what seems like hours, and I sit there, stroking the back of his head. Soon, my jeans are wet from his tears, and he clings to me so hard I'm sure his fingers are leaving marks in my leg. He's holding on to something he can't keep, and he knows it. He knows I'm slipping away. He can fight it all he wants, but this is one battle Scotty Valens can't win. And I think he's finally accepting it.

It's strange, me being the strong one. I'm never strong. That's why I love him so. He's strong enough for the both of us. But even the strongest man comes to the end of his rope eventually, and my Scotty is there. I smile softly that I'm there to catch him, even as my heart weeps along with him.

So this is what goodbye feels like.

After a while, I notice that he's not sobbing anymore, he's just lying there, sniffling occasionally, still clinging to me, but gradually, ever so gradually, he lets go. His hands slip from my leg, and finally, he raises his head.

"You ready?" he asks me softly.

No, baby. I'll never be ready to let you go. But I have to. I _have _to. For you.

Unable to speak, I simply nod, and we get up off that porch step and walk down the block, _our_ block, hand in hand, for what I know deep in my heart is the last time. I think he knows it, too.

We don't say a word. We don't need to. It's hanging there, unspoken, between us. I know he'll feel the need for a formal ending in a few days, but for me, the end is here. The end is now.

I dare to sneak a glance at him, and his eyes are fixed on some faraway point, but, even so, I know what he's thinking.

It really wasn't so long ago.


End file.
